Martingale
by Vitani FyreWolf
Summary: She did not even need to wonder anymore if Edward would submit – she knew he would. He was too used to the bridle holding his head down; even when it was off he still bowed to it, a ghost hand on his neck. EdxWinry


A/N: Okay, this is a technical author's note, in order to explain the title. I'm an equestrian, so this idea hit me one day. A martingale is a piece of English horseback riding equipment, used on nervous or green horses to keep their heads down. If they throw their heads up, then it is considerably harder to control them. The martingale keeps them down, giving the rider control. It is a piece of leather that goes around the neck, and connects under the chin and at the girth. What does this have to do with an FMA fic? Well, find that out yourself! This is quite… different from the normal view of Ed. But the poor boy has been kicked around so much, mentally and physically, it has to have some effect on him. This explores what the extent of that might be.

Martingale

By Vitani FyreWolf

_We are like horses who hurt themselves as soon as they pull on their bits -- and we bow our heads. We even lose consciousness of the situation, we just submit. Any re-awakening of thought is then painful._

- Simone Weil

If anything, night provided rare opportunities.

The room was quiet, the small figure on the bed stilled as if in sleep. She knew he was awake, knew he could hear her every step as she approached, yet he still did not move. Bare feet padded over wooden floorboards, stepping quickly because of the cold surface and eliciting soft creaks. When she reached the edge of the mattress she gently climbed on top, crawling to and bracing herself above his body, knees sinking into the soft sheets and pressing against his sides. Stopping there, she placed her hand on the pillow next to his head in a sort of intimate greeting. After a moment he turned to meet her eyes, cheek pressing lightly against her fingers in answer, something indecipherable in his gaze. This was not the first of their encounters, so there was not much surprise there, merely a quiet sort of anticipation. He would wait to see what she would do, and normally she would eagerly guide him. However, her role that night was not to control. She had decided to break him free.

Having received her silent invitation, her mouth lowered to his, seeking gently, not pressing for anything more. It always took him a while before he was truly responding according to his own desire – in the beginning he would tentatively return her kisses, lingering to see what was okay for him to do.

Winry did not accept this. It was not like Edward, to allow someone else to make the decisions. At least, it had not been. Over time, his duty taught him to obey so that he could not do anything without looking over his shoulder for another command. He hated it, she knew he did, but slowly it was wearing him down, resigning his heart to obedience. It bothered her to see the trapped look in his eyes when he wasn't allowed a choice, but it truly hurt her most when he stopped trying for one. She had begun to notice, slowly, that in their squabbles he would submit more and more quickly. Where before nothing could break his tirade, now a carelessly spoken word could snap his mouth shut so quickly that she did not even have a chance to start making up for it.

Oh, he fought it. She was always hearing stories – from both sides – about his disobedience. But she could still see in his face that in the end the harness would yank his head down, and his own strength would not be enough to get free of it anymore. He was used to it already, eyes more downcast – as a child, he had almost never lowered them for anyone. Now in a confrontation he would glance down, away, his stance declaring despite his angry words that "yes, I'm the sinner, you deserve to win." His guilt had allowed him to be dominated. That's why she hated it so much. Edward was not meant to be collared.

He was home now, and she would lift the martingale from his neck, would try her best to reverse the process as much as possible. He had to be the one to make the choices. He had to, or she would lose him. Her knees held firmly at his sides, and she nudged him to turn his head. Several slow kisses, and then she went motionless, silently asking for him to make the first move. Ed lay there, unsure, and unable to ask. He had never been able to form the words, so she had learned to interpret his silences as their own language. She kept her forehead pressed against his neck, resting against him gently, outwardly patient. Finally his desire – and his knowledge of hers – compelled him to move. Slowly, too slowly, he would raise his hands and run them down her sides, over her back. As his fingers began to reach under her clothes, she arched to allow him better access, but still did not make any ventures of her own. Warm and cold, the feelings sharply contrasted with each pass of his hands. Metal and flesh. His and hers.

She could spend ages contemplating that. Sometimes she would run her fingers up his right arm, chilling them on the steel only to be met with the warm skin of his neck and then the silky fall of his bangs against his cheek. So many sensations from one person, the outer appearance changing to match the complexity of the soul it represented. Scarred, hardened areas next to tender softness in an almost contradictory joining. He would twitch slightly at her cold fingers against his neck, but he never stopped her. She almost wished that he would, at least once. So he would try and control _something_.

When she still didn't stir he began to press against her more insistently, making small noises, and she slowly turned to fall on her back. He stopped moving his hands to peer at her in confusion, and she used hands and knees to coax him to rise above her, taking the top position she held so often. It took a bit of urging – more than he should need, far more – but he finally moved so that he knelt over her, legs taking the place hers once had. One side cold, one warm.

He stopped suddenly, noticing something. Reaching with one hand, he brought his braid over his shoulder. "Don't you want it down?"

She looked up at him. It was true, she would always take the tie from his hair, loving to run her hands through it, to see the patterns the moonlight would make in the golden strands. It was one of her more simple delights. "Do _you_ want it down?"

"You always like it that way." When she didn't take any action, he decisively hooked one thumb under the tie and jerked it out. She barely stopped herself from wincing at how roughly he treated himself, but still, she could almost smile. It had been his decision, not hers. He shook his head swiftly, freeing the hair from the braid, and it settled around his shoulders. The matching color made his eyes look wide and innocent, and he stopped and looked at her again. She resisted the urge to take his face in her hands and bring him down to meet her, clutching the sheets lightly instead.

Luckily he did not lapse into stillness again, but rather went about gently removing her clothing. She raised her arms at his urging to allow him to free her of her top – the pants he could handle by himself. After she was naked he settled above her again, although not without a quick glance for permission, much to her displeasure. When she did not reach for his clothes, like usual, he blinked at her in confusion. She returned his gaze easily, eyes betraying nothing, knowing perfectly well why he was bewildered. It was time he started initiating things on his own.

Apparently deciding she had forgotten what to do, Ed reached and took her hand, bringing it up to his shirt. With a smile, she complied and slipped it over his head, allowing her fingers to run through the fall of his hair, and was glad when his hand stayed with her to guide her down to his waistband. Within moments his skin was pressed to hers, and she stretched against him contentedly, humming softly against his shoulder. Warm and cold. Warm where his flesh was, where his light and spirit still shone. Cold from his two limbs; pain and guilt and sacrifice, where the fire had been stamped out. She wanted to keep the life burning brightly where she could, help it fight against the weight that pressed his shoulders down and forced his chin to his chest.

When she _still_ did not take any action, his frustration became apparent.

"C'mon, Winry," he muttered, placing his hands on hers to guide them over him. She could have laughed. He didn't understand what she was trying to do, but he did not like it when _she_ was so uncharacteristically submissive. It was a start. He could hardly try and make her do anything by being submissive himself. When he truly began to seem distressed by her lack of response, she finally gave in to his urgings. Eager to hold on to it, he controlled more, measuring their rhythm according to his own will. His blonde head tilted down to press his forehead against hers, asking for some show of approval. This she gave willingly, moaning and letting her hands follow down the paths he had led her, moving every so often to capture his lips in a quick kiss, only to break off for another gasp. The seeking approval was not a result of his being collared, but rather part of Edward that she knew well.

It brought her no little joy to feel him clutch at her in return, his soft cries in her ear. These moments were so fleeting, when Edward would actually revel in human touch, in connection without consequence. Her hands moved to the nape of his neck, stroking down to the small of his back, as though physically removing the weight on his shoulders. Indeed, he seemed to be lighter, and he threw his head up, hair falling over her fingers as she rose with him, following his lead.

It was over far too soon, and he fell atop her, before quickly gathering himself and moving off to the side to keep her from any discomfort caused by heavy metal limbs. She immediately curled into him, keeping her head under his chin, asking comfort rather than giving it in her usual manner. Another hesitation, and he brought his arm around her, tucking her to him. She would have to keep trying, for with every part of his confidence that returned to him there was still that slight wavering, that expectation that his own choices would be overruled. When he was out fighting, he could do it, could go by his own decisions no matter what the military told him he should do. But the effect was still there, in his relationships with people. In a battle he would hold out to the bitter end, but now, with someone he cared about, the wearing down of his strong will showed. He had only so much left.

Winry was also naturally strong-natured, and this was not easy for her. She wished fervently that they could play – gently battle each other for dominance, like they used to in their arguments. That's what they were suited for, what they would normally enjoy. But she did not even need to wonder anymore if Edward would submit – she _knew_ he would. He was too used to the bridle holding his head down; even when it was off he still bowed to it, a ghost hand on his neck.

_Another day_, her heart sang. _Another day._


End file.
